


Mancupium

by vivianne_leigh



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, F/M, Flash Fic, Unrequited Crush, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 08:25:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12229176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivianne_leigh/pseuds/vivianne_leigh
Summary: An unfinished abandoned fic in which Reaper, knowing about your secret crush on him, decides to take intitiative and  make the first move. May seem choppy at parts, but that's just due to the unfinished nature of the piece.





	Mancupium

You've served under Overwatch for a grand total of three missions before you start to notice something.

The base you've been sequestered in is massive;  even though it's essentially an enormous dorm you feel dwarfed by the high ceilings and extended halls. Everyone has there own room, but the bathrooms and kitchen space is limited- the rest of the place is filled with weapons stashes and medical supplies and enough advanced technology to invade a modest-sized country.

Right now, though, it's morning, and you're struggling to make sense of your teams’ resident edgelord over cold cereal. Reaper never shows up in the mornings, only appearing for practice and missions. Since you're both offense, you've never been paired together, which doesn't bother you much. He's just too much for you to handle, but the worst part is that he takes everything so seriously- at best, you could only stand a few chants of _die, die die_ before losing it completely. You raise the spoon to your mouth before it gets too soggy but a new question pops into your head.

_Has anyone ever seen his face?_

“I ‘unno.” Tracer chirps beside you, casually spearing scrambled eggs on her fork. “Rumor has it he’s a mustache, though.”

Seeing your confused expression, she grins and wiggles her cutlery at you. “You're thinking aloud, love. I'm no psychic.”

A bit embarrassed, you turn your face back to your now-soggy food and try to keep your voice conversational.

“S-So he actually has a face? Guess you really do learn something new every day.”

“He does, I'm sure of it!” She pauses suddenly and peers around the room, leaning close conspiratorially. The way her bangs flutter with the motion almost makes it comical, but you're already hanging on to her every word for more information. “Widowmaker told me once his real name is actually-”

 _click_.

She pulls back with her eyebrows raised, eyes focusing on something to your right. You don't bother looking. “Reaper,” you say stiffly in greeting, without looking. You shovel cereal into your mouth automatically as an excuse.  Beside you, Tracer fidgets. Awkwardly, she shifts in her seat, biting her lip before shooting you a faint smile. “I heard D.Va uses crushed crisps as a topping.”

——————————————————

You laugh and nudge her shoulder, bursting into laughter. She quips back as fast as ever, and you both fall into an earnest conversation.

——————————————————

Hours later you crawl into bed, loose-limbed and exhausted, the ghost of a black eye tingling long after Mercy has intervened. Changing clothes seems like too huge a challenge, so you settle for peeling off your uniform and kicking it to the side, dropping onto the sheets without even getting underneath them. Immediately something hard burrows into your hip, nudging insistently like a spur of bone. Irritable, you clutch the sheets until you find the problem. It's small and fits in your fist, which is odd, but as it’s not exploding, spewing acid, or making noise it's an issue for tomorrow. You drag your arm out until you bump the edge of the nightstand, and push it onto the table before rolling over and burrowing into your pillow. Your eyes droop shut,and the darkness of the room settles over you.

The next morning you drift into awareness slowly, stretching to relieve the stiffness of sleep. Without thinking, you roll over and reach for the end table as a brace for your movements, almost mindlessly curling your fingers around smooth surface of a small item that bumps into your hand. You pull it closer as your eyes adjust. The last bit of sleep still blurs your eyes, so you twist it toward the weak light leaking from your windows and hold it up, squinting. One end is rounded, and the other is flat, almost like...

Like...  

In a burst of understanding, you clench the shotgun shell in your fist and rest your knuckles against your collarbones.

——————————————————

The tip of the barrel brushes the flesh of your lip, slowly pressing against you in an imitation of a kiss. Instinctively, you part your lips and brush your tongue against the muzzle. The taste of gunpowder sets your mouth tingling, and you shut your eyes, letting yourself memorize the sensation of metal and ashes on your lips.

You jump a foot in the air and whip around, trying to swallow your heart back down. Your fingers clutch the fabric of your top, and underneath the material you can feel your pulse roaring. Presumably you're not dying of shock, then, so you turn your attention toward the next major step- finding out who, exactly, is invading your space.

It doesn't take long.

A figure stands at your window, the moonlight highlighting the broadness of his shoulders and the back of his hood. He's facing you- but the lighting is terrible and you can barely see him there, let alone any specific features. Your brain scrambles to match the silhouette to someone you know, but you can't focus enough to make a decent identification, either. The surface of his face seems eerily pale, you notice, stretching over his nose and mouth while the rest of his body stays cloaked in shadow. “Identify yourself.” You call, sliding into what you hope is a defensive pose. You heart is quivering like cranberry sauce from a can.

(You hope he can’t smell the fear on you.)  
 

He says nothing.  

“I'm not going to ask a second time.”

In the low light you see his head tilt, slightly. You're still squinting in the dark, but you can feel his stare scraping across your skin. You get the feeling he has an answer in mind, but is deliberately holding his tongue to see you squirm.

It's making you nervous.

When he finally moves, you can hear the leather of his boots. He takes a few steps towards where you stand, and the shifting light allows you to see the silver crossing his chest. _He's armed,_ a tiny voice breathes in the back of your skull. _He's come to kill me_. After a few moments, he stops, just out of reach, and you take the closed distance to look him up and down. He's much bigger then you, by far, and your blood turns icy when you contemplate fighting him off in hand to hand combat. His hands are nearly twice as large as your own. His arms look thicker then your legs. You wonder what each arm is capable of doing.

What both arms are capable of doing together.

 _Don't_ . You curse yourself inwardly, became those same arms you're admiring could break your spine _without_ the aid of whatever weapons he's undoubtedly carrying. _Don’t get distracted- I can't afford it._

You tear your gaze away from his muscles and force yourself to stare at the blankness swathing his face, hoping to catch his attention. Ideally you're sending him a message by not shying away – showing him who's boss, you hope – but he moves closer again and you feel your stomach cramp with nerves.


End file.
